Grime and Crime
by saunatonttu
Summary: Crimes never sleeps, but neither does the law. Arthur Kirkland struggles through life in the city as a bitter and guarded private detective that soon gets swept into a series of cases that will untangle the past - or perhaps mingle it even further. Sexual themes will be present. Eventual FrUK and other pairings.
1. urbicide

A/N: So, uh, I'm trying to get back into this fandom again... and hopefully finish a multichaptered story for _once._ I have many plans for this story, and I hope I'll manage to get those into words instead of mere images in my head.

I may have been reading Sherlock Holmes when I got inspired for this. Hehe.

* * *

><p><strong>chapter 1<strong>

**urbicide **

* * *

><p>"Thank you for helping me out."<p>

The words left his lip reluctantly, through gritted teeth, as his fingers restlessly played with the cigarette he had been smoking the past four or so minutes in the parking lot of McDonald's.

And he had thought his life couldn't sink lower; yet, here he was smoking a cigarette of a painfully cheap brand (and the taste being as awful as expected) in a parking lot that had clearly seen better days at one in the morning. Not to mention that he was… doing something so incredibly humiliating that the taste of the cigarette turned even sourer.

Two days he had kept going on with nearly no sleep at all, and the painful throbbing in his temples didn't exactly put him at ease.

The incredibly loud slurping coming from his right didn't exactly help matters.

"Haha, no problem, dude!"

Alfred F. Jones was a constant thorn in his side, and Arthur desperately wanted to remove said thorn. At least, he wanted the fool to lose his voice for a while. God, that would be a blessing.

"Always knew ya would need it," Alfred continued without missing a beat, unbearably and unbelievably cheery considering the time. Arthur frowned, and beneath his brows a deep furrow formed.

"This is- was just a one-time thing!" Arthur retorted, exhaling before bringing the cigarette back to his thin lips. "Don't think I'll come running to you next time."

There was something incredibly revolting in giving up his pride, but for the sake of this peculiar case, he had been forced to. Arthur didn't like it, but for his client's sake, he had done it. It was ridiculous, really: his client clearly asking for something that he had no access to in his position.

Arthur sighed again. At least he could trust Alfred to keep his mouth shut… or so he hoped. His cousin had always been a bit of a… talker.

At least he had been able to find out what his client had been so desperate to know, though Arthur realized the news could possibly tear her apart - at least a little bit.

That thought was not a comfortable one.

Well, luckily he had Earl Grey available in his office…

Alfred's obnoxiously muscular arm (come on, how could Alfred be more muscular than he, who actually went to gym whereas Alfred didn't even have a gym membership)slung over his shoulders, startling him from his musings and worries.

"Sure, sure, whatever you say, Art."

The old nickname made Arthur's face scrunch up into a scowl; this youngster had always been too familiar with him, even despite him being older and Alfred's babysitter since who knows how many times. (Despite the age difference of, what, five years?)

"Alfred," he hissed, "I thought I told you to stop using that name." Not only because it was stupid, but also because Alfred used it to mock him. A lot.

It was way too late to deal with Alfred and his bloody nicknames, and so Arthur gave in after a moment of glowering and pushing the arm off his shoulder as he took one last drag from his cigarette. It had been a long, mentally taxing day. Alfred didn't protest; his affection was mostly used to annoy Arthur, and that had been accomplished.

"How's everyone doing at the station, anyway?" Arthur inquired quietly, glancing when a lone car left the mostly empty parking lot. A red Toyota, he noted. Glaringly red, for it to be noticed in this darkness. Arthur sighed as he stomped the cigarette with the sole of his foot - he took notice of the smallest and most mundane things. Courtesy of his past and present careers, he supposed mildly.

Alfred shrugged as he adjusted his glaringly American jacket (seriously, "FREEDOM" printed on the back, and the damn eagle on the front) before replying casually, "The usual. You know, Kiku being busy with paperwork. Francis flirting with the girls from the traffic department—"

Arthur snorted half-heartedly at the mention of Francis and flirting in the same sentence. "Nothing new under the sky, I see." The mention of Kiku, however… "The promotion did go to the right guy, after all," he muttered to himself, genuinely pleased on the account of Honda Kiku, with whom he had had the pleasure of working a few times.

Arthur refused to glance at Alfred's jacket and immersed into the small chitchat about the police force (his old friends and enemies, really) until they went their separate ways; Alfred to catch the metro, Arthur to the bus.

He reached home around quarter to two, and he didn't bother turning the lights on as he ventured through the small rooms to his bedroom and collapsed onto it. Two times he had tripped over a magazine or a book, and a string of curses had left his lips; eventually he reached his destination, however.

That night he had no dreams.

* * *

><p>A quarter past two in the afternoon, and Arthur had a headache similar to the one that had struck him the night before.<p>

His client - an unfortunate lady that trusted no police officer in the city - had left moments earlier, sniffling into her handkerchief, and while Arthur genuinely felt bad for telling her that her brother had indeed committed suicide he was also relieved because she had nearly pierced his eardrums with her wailing.

He nursed a cup of tea in his hands as silence came in like a welcomed guest.

Arthur leaned back on his seat, absently staring at the files scattered over the mahogany desk before him: new and old cases, info files, and the "dubious people" files that Arthur updated whenever possible. Arthur's dim green eyes paused at one of the files, staring and glowering at the picture of a person he knew professionally all too well.

"Ivan Braginsky" was written next to the photo in tidy handwriting.

"What are you planning, I wonder," Arthur mused aloud in the silence of his room as he absentmindedly sipped his Earl Grey. Staring at Braginsky's photograph for too long, though, wouldn't do him any good, and so he closed that particular file when the unnerving stare from the photograph became unbearable.

It's not like he could do anything about Ivan Braginsky, anyway, since he was a private detective.

Arthur's lips twitched and curled at the thought, not for the first time in the past two years, and he set the now empty porcelain cup down, careful to not misplace or drop it.

Something akin to hatred pulsed through his veins even minutes after closing that file, and it took him a couple deep breaths to get the memory of Ivan's laughing, mocking face off his mind.

With his early afternoon tea gone, Arthur went back to checking his schedule, only to find that this day he had no engagements whatsoever - saddening for his money situation, even though his last client (that poor woman) had paid him relatively well.

The pile of bills that waited him in the kitchen entered his mind, making Arthur's face twist into a wince. Fucking hell.

The ringing of his cell phone brought Arthur back to the moment, away from his reveries, and he picked the apparatus up apprehensively, as though expecting the worst… or Alfred.

In the end, it turned out to be something much worse than Arthur's worst nightmare or Alfred.

It was that blasted Francis Bonnefoy.

Arthur scowled. After retiring from the police force, he had thought Francis would have stopped bothering him. Guess he was wrong about that…

Eventually, he answered the call, his expression twitching between annoyed and guarded. What did Francis call him for?

Unless it was… unless it was…

Arthur threw the naive hope away from his mind. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, voice civil as expected from a gentleman such as him.

Or, well, as civil as he could be when it came to the irresponsible, flirtatious fool.

Arthur made a face when Francis's signature laughter reverberated against his ear. Ugh.

"What took you so long, _mon petit lapin_?" Francis's voice was bloody velvet against his ear, abrasive in its smoothness, and quickly rousing the urge to harrumph and hang up from the depths of Arthur's soul - nothing new, really. "Could it have been that you were finally-"

"Stop right there, Francis," Arthur interrupted, dark color rising to his face as he realized the implication in Francis's smug tone. "I haven't heard from you in an eternity, and that's what you want to know? Stop right there, you damn pervert." The last sentence came out in a low hiss, and Arthur vehemently glared at the empty space before his desk as though he could see the damn Frenchman stand right there.

And his imagination did provide him a sharp image of Francis, indeed.

Eyes clearer than the sky in its bluest shade; hair curly and golden like sunlight; muscular body covered in fashionable clothes; head tilted to the right in a manner that said "oh, Arthur" in the most obnoxiously smug tones; thick lips that spouted nonsense day after day.

That was Francis Bonnefoy.

The tinkling laughter against his ear made Arthur recoil, as he had been in his memories for a moment too long. "I believe you have grown more uptight since the last time we met, Arthur. Why's that?" Francis sounded like a… Arthur didn't even have a word for it, not anymore.

With a sigh, he put some distance between his ear and the phone. "I'm hanging up, Francis," he said flatly, annoyance clinging to each and every breath. If this was why Francis had called, then—

"Now, now, don't get too impatient." Francis paused for a moment, and Arthur, for that brief instant, sensed hesitance. "Actually, _rosbif,_ I would appreciate your help…"


	2. city shades

A/N: Finally updating this.

* * *

><p><strong>chapter 2<strong>

**city shades**

* * *

><p>"I will hurt you if you're playing games with me, Francis," Arthur grumbled as he adjusted the scarf around his neck, side-eyeing (side-glaring) at the French angrily. It was fucking freezing, the temperature being the lowest it had been this time of year yet.<p>

Perhaps he could get away with murder if he spirited himself away afterward. Now, that was a thought worth considering. "I thought you said you _needed_ my help."

Francis's laughter was as cringe-worthy as always. "Now, now, I couldn't talk about something like that on the phone, Arthur dear." The endearment came out with such sarcastic fondness that it made Arthur flush with anger and shove his hands deeper into the pockets of the thick jacket he was wearing.

Nothing had changed since the last time, at least—

The thought was strangely comforting to Arthur, though he'd never admit it to anyone, especially not to the flamboyant police officer beside him.

The sarcasm, the not-so-friendly banter — all of them took Arthur back to old times.

Shit, don't think about that now.

"Just where are we going, anyhow?" Arthur grumbled, flinching as a cold gale struck both their faces. "I can't leave my office for nothing, you imbecile." It was almost wintertime by now; trees had shed their leaves already, the last of greenery dying with each passing day little by little. Fucking foliage.

But streets were as full of life as always, late fall or not, and Arthur found it difficult to hear Francis's next words over the noise the surrounding crowd made.

Not for the first time, he lamented the fact that he had ever moved into the city where people were dumb as bricks and crime more hideous. Just look at Francis; he certainly proved one of these statements correct.

"…here… go in…" Francis's vague gestures to a cafe located in one of the shadiest street corners in the city, and Arthur followed him cautiously but knowing that Francis wouldn't get him into any trouble. Not anymore, anyhow…

He trusted Francis; his agreement to helping Francis (_"I'll hear you out, but I can't promise anything")_ was one that stemmed from this trust.

The relationship they had was one of equality, one of shared years, one of shared hardships. Arthur never thought too deeply about it, but just like with Alfred, Francis was the one that knew him best, inside and out, and it worked both ways.

Still, Arthur gave Francis a critical, grumpy look as they got seated in the farthest corner of the cafe. "I see your tastes have gone to ruin," he criticized, uneasy and stiff as he took off his jacket before rubbing some warmth into his blue-tinted fingers. The cafe was dimly lit, dust hovering in the air like poison, and low chattering filled the air. No one took notice of them, not immediately, and Arthur got a vague feeling that the place was not entirely legal.

Francis waved his glove-covered hand dismissively, eyes darting distractedly towards the counter in the back of the cafe, where some employees rushed about fulfilling orders and two even had the time to gossip something in hushed tones. Not that Arthur would have heard them in the first place; the table was farthest from the front desk, and secluded even from the rest of the round tables people snacked at.

"Stay here for a moment, I'll get us something to drink." Francis' blue eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky, but Arthur thought he saw something darker lurking beneath the shallow surface that the blond usually put up. And just like that, Francis was off before Arthur could huff out a response.

Left alone, he had no choice but to settle down, since he didn't want to cause a scene — the somewhat secretive atmosphere of the cafe was making him tense and queasy, he didn't need to add more fuel to it. He slowly unwrapped the scarf from his neck, placing it quietly on the back of the chair on top of his jacket before turning back to inspect the shadowy cafe and its occupants. Hidden only barely from the main street, the cafe seemed to have an ideal location for business.

The dark forest green eyes darted around the dim room, noting how several customers all had their high-collar jackets on, collars pulled as high as possible, and silent murmurs with not exact words reached Arthur's ears. Eyes narrowing, he wondered once more why Francis had brought him to a shady place like this. Trust or no trust, Francis ought to have known that Arthur would hate this place—

"Here's your cappuccino." A cup of steaming coffee (was it even coffee, Arthur didn't even know— fucking cappuccinos and moccas and modern-day need to give a name to every fucking thing) was set down before him, and Arthur released an annoyed sigh through his nostrils.

"Francis, I only drink tea, you-"

Francis shrugged, lips in an infuriatingly light smile. "I don't care, Eyebrows."

"You little-!"

Francis waved his hand dismissively as he sat down with his own steaming cup of coffee (Mocca? Cappuccino? Who the fuck knows). "You're as short-tempered as always, Arthur." Was it just Arthur or did Francis smile almost fondly just then?

…must have been his imagination, though Francis did smile at the oddest times.

Back in high school, as well…

Taking a deep breath and a sip from his coffee (cappuccino, was it?), Arthur calmed his nerves. "Why this place, Francis?" he asked, almost inaudibly, as he glanced at the other's serene (but was that uneasiness he detected in that smile?) expression. "This place doesn't seem like… your style."

The idiot had the gall to chuckle like Arthur had just cracked a joke. "No, I guess it's not," he admitted, fingers trailing the side of the porcelain cup, and the smile on his lips softened as the blue eyes gazed down at the cup. "It's just… this is 'Toni's cafe."

'Toni… Tonio… Antonio?

"Antonio…?" Arthur voiced his question, brows wrinkled. "I thought he was still a police inspector last year?" Surely, it couldn't be that Toni…

Francis nodded, eyes glazing over as he stirred his coffee and dropped a sugar cube into the cup. "He was, but… a certain case made him resign from the job." The words that Francis didn't say were painfully obvious as they hung between the two, Arthur taking the information in and Francis silently eyeing Arthur.

Antonio Carriedo… had been one of Arthur's co-workers, once upon a time. A friendly man with brains emptier than Alfred's fridge on weekends.

Even Arthur had liked him well enough, though Antonio's gullible nature was sometimes a big hindrance and an even bigger annoyance.

"I… see," he murmured, deciding to leave the matter of Antonio's career-ending case alone. Francis's sudden apprehension concerning the subject had said more than enough to the former police detective about its severity. And, well, Antonio's nature taking into account, it would have had to have been something huge.

"Okay, that's that," he nodded decisively, leaning back as he gave Francis a look. "I don't have too much time to waste, you know." Hint hint, get to the point, fucking frogface. Francis seemed to get the hint, if that obnoxiously amused face was anything to go by.

"My oh my, and here I thought we could catch up and so on, Arthur."

Twitch. "Don't test my patience, frog."

"It's not like you have anything better to do anyway, oui?"

"…Francis."

"You still have no sense of humor, I see." Francis tutted, flicking his wrist arrogantly before quieting down as a contemplative look crossed his face - that look was enough for Arthur to keep another fiery retort to himself. For now. Francis eventually gave a sigh while staring down at his coffee.

"I don't know how I should word this exactly, Arthur."

Arthur sipped his coffee silently, patiently waiting for Francis to continue though with a touch of apprehension creeping up to his mind. When Francis was at a loss for words, situation tended to be rather… serious, and for the briefest of moments Arthur allowed himself to consider the possibility that maybe this was about that case… but Francis hadn't been involved, had he? Impossible, it was very improbable…

"You remember Vash Zwingli, right?"

The question was so abrupt, so unexpected, that Arthur nearly dropped the cup from his hands that had twitched from the surprise. Green eyes widened, Adam's apple bobbed; all this in a fraction of a moment before the former police detective regained his composure.

"Yes, I remember him," Arthur said, fingers cradling the cup with more care now, "Zwingli was a police officer, about to get promoted but then he passed away…" His heart beat loudly against his ribcage; there was a thunderstorm inside him - but at the same time he felt as cold as Antarctica. He stared at the warm color of the coffee contemplatively. "What about him?"

Cold numbness prickled him from the inside, wriggling and poking around until sitting still became a task for Arthur.

Vash Zwingli….

He hadn't heard that name in a while.

"Well, not technically about him…" Francis trailed off uneasily, eyes averted (uncharacteristic, Arthur noted) and lips tucked together in slight frown. "His little sister, Lili, has been murdered."

Whether he was surprised or disappointed by this news, Arthur couldn't even tell himself. Instead, he took another sip to calm his constantly strained nerves, allowing himself some time to consider the meaning of Francis's words. Lili, the green-eyed young university student he had once met, has been murdered. How and when, he'd find out later. But…

"Why are you bringing this up - to me? I retired ages ago, Francis." Arthur placed the cup down, fingers lingering on its edges for a while. "Or is it connected to Vash?" If it was, then…

"Well," Francis threw a sheepish look at him, "it's not, as far as I can tell. But there's something about this case that seems a bit off."

"Something… off?"

"Yeah. Can't put my finger on exactly what it is, but…" Francis mused as he stirred his coffee absentmindedly. "For one, I suppose, is that the girl was loved by everyone, so there is no apparent motive we can find." A pause. "And considering the brutal way she was killed…"

"You thought there must have been someone that hated her," Arthur concluded, "but your investigations, as you said, proved otherwise. At least for the time being."

"Or something recent that had brought up the murderous intention," Francis added, eyes dark and distant. "But mademoiselle Zwingly was too innocent for anything of the sort to have happened. She was popular, of course, but no one seemed jealous of her - she was poor, clinging to the inheritance received from her brother. She was single, as well; there were possible suitors, but each had been rejected with kindness you and I don't get to see often in this world."

Arthur took this in with elegance of a former officer, fingers drumming against the table as he mulled over this information. "Then… then what exactly could it be…" he murmured to himself. "There are bloody mad people out there, that's for sure." An inkling of a thought had been growing inside his head, but Arthur felt reluctant to accept the thought as nothing but lunacy. It would be so very ludicrous— no, it was not possible…

Or was it?

"…Can you show me photos of the crime scene or is that too much to ask, Francis?" Francis had been carrying a large - but fashionable, as always - bag around, which Arthur thought must have some photos and files within. "It's difficult to give any suggestion when I don't even know precisely the scene nor how she was killed."

Lili Zwingli's face came to his mind as he spoke: a sweet-natured teenager with golden blond hair cut short to match her brother's and eyes greener than most precious jewels in any gallery; with quivering lips and frail facial structure she was someone that forced emotion out of people.

Francis stayed silent for a moment, eyes on Arthur for a little longer than what was appropriate, before nodding his consent. "Of course; obviously I brought them with me for your minimalistic brain's sake," he joked with an annoying smirk glued to his face before diving in to get the files from the bag. Arthur merely huffed irritably - Francis and his blasted (and out-of-place!) teasing.

"Just get on with it," he demanded, "or else I'll check whether this cafe has any English muffins."

"Yes, yes," Francis laughed as he leaned down, emphasizing his French accent as much as he could with each syllable since he knew it to annoy Arthur the most.

What an arse.

He controlled himself, though, especially since Francis was now laying the files on the table while inconspicuously glancing around them to make sure they weren't being watched. Arthur's thick eyebrows knit together when he saw that there was more than one file - had Francis brought every witness statement with him as well? That was more thorough than he had expected; Francis must also have been very sure that Arthur would agree to mull over this case.

Well, it was Lili Zwingli… Arthur felt a twinge of guilt in his heart at the thought of the girl - and her big brother. Vash wouldn't have forgiven him; in fact, Arthur figured that he'd be dead by now if the all-too trigger-happy officer were alive. Lili had been the most important person to the blond, and Arthur felt a shudder go through him as he realized that he had, inadvertently, let Vash down.

What an irrational thought that was! It was not like they hadn't kept surveillance on Lili for weeks, months after the incident just in case something were to happen - but nothing ever had. She had not witnessed her brother's death; there had never been any indication that she feared for her own safety because of that case. Anything more than a few weeks of casual surveillance would have been harassment - and Lili had graciously accepted the surveillance with a soft, resigned smile of a person whose world had crumbled into tiny particles of dust.

Arthur didn't have a sister — but he had understood how much Vash must have wanted to protect Lili then when that precarious, breakable smile emerged on Lili's pale, thin lips as he broke the news of having no idea who had murdered her brother.

Shaking that memory away, Arthur tugged at the corner of one of the files - the main file, the thickest one - and opened it silently. The usual case description was the first of many pages, naturally, which Arthur read fully as it wasn't very long to begin with.

_**Name of the Victim:** Lili Zwingli_  
><em><strong>Time of Death:<strong> October 27th, between 8 pm and 12 am_  
><em><strong>Cause of Death:<strong> severe blood loss caused by a stabbing in the chest_  
><em><strong>Number of Stabs:<strong> at least fifteen; great rage as a motivator?_  
><em><strong>Other Notes:<strong> no visible defense wounds on victim_

_**Additional Notes (post-autopsy):** traces of sleeping pills found in her system among with other unrecognizable drugs, possibly opiates._

"Opiates?" Arthur muttered in hushed tones, abruptly raising his head towards Francis. "Was she using recreational drugs?" The thought was absurd to him; of all the people, Lili Zwingly was hardly the type to get into anything illegal.

Things could change in two years' time, however…

"We have been trying to find that out," Francis said slowly, just as reluctant as Arthur was to believe that Miss Zwingli was taking part in something illegal. "Her friends deny it firmly - she has never appeared before them drunk or high or in any indecent state in general." Francis paused. "We have, frankly speaking, no idea what the opiates in her system mean."

Arthur sighed, nostrils flaring, as he glanced the rest of the paper before getting to the crime scene photographs.

The two years away from the police force had done their job in killing some of the ghosts he had - and certainly, he couldn't not flinch at the gruesomeness of the crime, despite knowing he had seen even worse things during his time. He swallowed, thickly, slowly taking a deep breath before starting a more analytical inspection of the photos at hand.

The amount of blood made his stomach roll nastily, but he persevered and took notice of the stab wounds on the body in the picture, of the fact that no murder weapon could not be found, and of the glaring fact that Lili Zwingli, the poor lass, had been dumped into a dumpster. Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"The crime did not occur there, did it?" he muttered to himself, eyelids flickering shut for a second as he worked his little grey brain cells. "There's no blood on the trash bags, only on the victim and her clothes." So, the actual crime scene was somewhere else…Arthur frowned. Could the murderer have gone into panic? If the killing hadn't been premeditated, but done out of some indescribably overwhelming emotion… then there should be some evidence the murdered could have overlooked.

Had it been premeditated, surely she would have been hidden better - perhaps she wouldn't have ever been found, if the killer had enough wits on their persona.

"Oui," Francis agreed, stroking at his stubble of a beard with slow movements. "We came to the same conclusion - however, the actual scene is yet to be found." The Frenchman's expression darkened - lips curled down, eyebrows furrowed, eyes tightened - and a sigh came out of his mouth. "There's a list of her friends somewhere there, beneath those horrid photos. I thought you'd want to talk to them on your own."

"This is all friendly of you," Arthur muttered as he searched for the mentioned page. Ah, there - a list of addresses, names and phone numbers…"Why are you doing this again, Francis? To go so far as to let me investigate on my own, without your 'quality' supervision." There was bite in his tone; bitterness, but also challenge - and genuine wonder…

Francis started at the question; a flinch that vanished the next moment. "My dear-" Arthur scoffed, bristling at the false endearment. "Fine, fine, you insensitive buffoon," Francis huffed then, clear blue eyes rolling as he settled back on the chair. "You pride yourself to be a gentleman, yet you bristle at endearments." With a swipe of his hand, the Frenchman dropped the issue, and heaved out a sigh. "It's embarrassing, truly; but I believe it's going to be difficult to get to the bottom of this without some… extraordinary means, if you know what I mean."

"You're really counting on me in this one?" Arthur's frown deepened. This was all too suspicious — Francis was a proud man himself, maybe not as much as Arthur but it was inconceivable that the other would ask Arthur for help without some pressure from above or around him.

"We are old friends, non?" Francis's smile widened in amusement, eyes twinkling like stars on the night sky as they teased the onlooker. "Am I not allowed to ask for favours anymore, mon ami?"

"I didn't say that!" Arthur retorted as his face grew hot with a furious blush. "Just…" What are you after? "We haven't talked in months, and now you ask me to do your investigations for you."

"Non, non," Francis denied, frowning at him. "Just hoping for a fresh perspective for this case, is all."

* * *

><p>Arthur wandered aimlessly around the city, mulling over his meeting with Francis. He couldn't quite get the thought of something being wrong out of his mind, though he knew it was possibly unnecessary anxiety, a result from his last client's insufferable nature and overbearing emotionality.<p>

But to bring files of the case with him… Arthur guiltily glanced down at the bag he had shoved the files in — apparently copies, since taking originals out was an absolute no-no; as was taking copies, a fact which Francis had decidedly ignored or conveniently forgotten.

The list of addresses he had shoved into the pocket of his coat, which he now fished out. Where should he start…?

_Emil Steilsson… his address isn't too far. A couple of blocks._

He soon got himself into a bus, paid the fare and needed formalities with the driver, and relapsed into a different train of thought as he watched the streets buzz with life — life that he felt disconnected to, he realized not for the first time.

Absentmindedly he shifted when someone came to sit down next to him. Another necessary empty word or two was exchanged— "such dreadful weather today" "indeed, ma'am" — and Arthur touched his pocket tentatively. The list was still there. Good. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that this Emil had something enlightening to say about Lili Zwingli's last days… if not the very last one. He envisioned the murder scene again - the real scene — and tried to pinpoint…

It must have been an underground club, to his mind. Sex and drugs — cannabis, amphetamine, crack, ecstasy, LSD. Those sold. What was money as a compensation for the drug-induced peace and stillness? There would always be people relying on substances to reach the so-called nirvana.

What was the connection to the victim and the scene of crime, though? That was the issue here.

Arthur heaved out a sigh as he climbed out from the bus, thanking the driver with an absentminded nod of his head, before looking around for the apartment building with that familiar address — but he couldn't remember why it was so familiar. The building itself looked forlorn and cheap — clearly in need to renovation, if cracks and dulled colours were anything to go by — and Arthur got the impression that it was either for poor university students or… well, now he was just being judgmental. Inner-city hadn't kept with the times, really; it was apparent in the atmosphere as well.

Nostalgia was the last emotion he had expected to experience, yet that's how he felt as he knocked on the door of the apartment of Emil Steilsson, who apparently had only started living there a few weeks before the murder.

Arthur rang the doorbell, wincing at the shrill sound that rang through the air with ear-piercing quality. It was difficult to believe Lili Zwingli, a relatively well-off girl, would have associated herself with people living there, but… she had been too kind for the world, as much as he could tell.

The door creaked open…

"Arthur? Arthur Kirkland?"

Blood instantly ran cold in his veins. That voice… Arthur's eyes widened as the door opened more, revealing a man with broad shoulders and a face dumber than that of Alfred F. Jones. Well, he had to admit, objectively speaking Matthias Jensen had a nicely curved face - strong jawline, high cheekbones, almost model-like nose and then lips that were often curved up in a mischievous grin that no doubt charmed the more naive ones.

It was the character of Matthias that ruined the beautiful pretty boy image the half-Dane had going on for him.

"…Jensen," Arthur said stiffly, shoulders tensing as Matthias's expression lit up like a Christmas tree. "I thought this was a familiar address…" he mumbled more to himself, glaring down at the slip of paper he had been holding in his hand.

"Oh, man… I haven't seen you in bars for so long, I thought you had died or something!"

"I have a _job_, unlike you, Jensen."

"I have a boyfriend, unlike you, Kirkland."

"Thanks for proving me that you're still a leech," Arthur said, nose wrinkling in mild disgust, though mildly amused that his assumption had been proved correct.

Matthias merely laughed; a full-hearted laugh that came deep from his throat. Then he made way for Arthur. "Come in, you lousy Englishman," he teased with a twinkle in his eyes. "You look like you have something interesting to talk about."

Arthur stepped in with precarious steps, taking in the claustrophobic feeling the tall walls and numerous small corners in the small apartment gave him. An apartment clearly for two, and yet three were living there — Arthur noticed the three pairs of shoes near the entrance, one which was a pair of Adidas. Undoubtedly Matthias's, if the Dane's sense of fashion hadn't changed.

"I was actually coming over for Emil Steilsson," Arthur said as he took his coat off and put it on the coat rack. "I thought the address sounded familiar…"

Matthias paused. "About the Zwingli girl?"

"Yes."

"Emil's not here right now, though. You sure you didn't just wanna see me?"

"There are three pairs of shoes at the entrance, Matthias," Arthur retorted, choosing to go back to first-name basis as the other was already acting buddy-buddy with him again, despite them not having seen each other in almost a year now.

Matthias's expression changed into one of the most peculiar expressions Arthur had ever seen — that of sudden wariness, of inexplicable caution.

Then, as soon as it had appeared, it was gone, and Matthias laughed sheepishly. "Well, yeah… Guess that wasn't a smart thing to lie about. But you know, Emil has talked to the police a lot, and Lukas would kick my sorry butt if Emil's pestered more than necessary…"

"So, you two did end up together," Arthur mused, a side-thought that he had been wondering. "Congratulations."

Matthias's grin widened into a more natural one. "Yeah, we're engaged and all." Arthur sputtered in response, but he didn't get the chance to express his surprise in other ways when one of the doors in the small hallway opened. A young man, university student if Arthur had to hazard a guess, with pale face and pale hair stepped out. The most striking feature on him was the violet eyes that shone dimly in the right light. His face was devoid of any emotion — it was a blank canvas, but unlike with some other people, Arthur didn't find the blankness sinister at all.

The boy's lips curled down slightly and the dark eyes widened at the sight of the visitor, and now Arthur noticed the dark bags beneath the amethystine eyes that spoke of several badly slept nights, due to either university or the recent stress which Lili Zwingli's untimely death must have caused.

"Emil Steilsson?" he inquired, though there was hardly any doubt.

Thin lips pursed even further, violet eyes throwing a cursory glance to Matthias, who simply shook his head.

"…Yes," the pale boy — really now, did every teenage boy aim to get into the Next Edward Cullen show or something — murmured. "…This is about Lili again?" Emil emphasized the last word slightly, enough for Arthur to distinguish the slight tone of annoyance that had been creeping up to the boy's voice.

"Uh," Matthias made an unintelligent sound, and Arthur intervened. "Yes, it is. If it's alright with you, Mr Steilsson?"

Emil's eyes slid shut for a few seconds. "You don't look like a police officer."

"I'm not," Arthur admitted tersely, "which is why you can tell anything you can't tell the police to me."

Emil's lips thinned even further as his hands adjusted the bag on his shoulders jerkily. "I have lectures to go to."

"I may not be an officer, but I am a detective and I have been asked to investigate this case," Arthur said slowly, his own patience running low as he frowned at the obstinate young man. He then dug out his business card from the abyss of his trousers' pocket, and held it for Emil to take. "Call me if you want to talk about Lili Zwingli."

Emil gave a sigh. "If you insist," he said sulkily, very much like a teenager who was forced to go on a road trip with his parents. "I'm off now, Matthias." Emil took the card with visible reluctance — though Arthur didn't miss the look of contemplation that crossed Emil's face — before wandering off, stopping only to get a coat and put his shoes on before his exit.

Matthias cleared his throat. Awkward. "Well, Lukas is sleeping, so… wanna go out? For old time's sake. I can tell as much about Emil's side of the story as Emil himself, y'know."

"Might as well," Arthur nodded in acceptance. "On your tab, Matthias," he added with a smirk as he took his coat again. Matthias, to his credit, merely grinned and no protest left his lips.

"Still as sly as ever, eh, Arthur?"

Arthur managed to return to smile, his temper soothed. "Someone has to keep their wits with them when others grow dim," he commented with pretended bite to his tone, though it fell flat, and Matthias only laughed heartily.


	3. whisk it away

**A/N: **First of all, apologies for being so late with this. I have been busy with my actual job, and university started again, so yay for more work! Also, I recently got sick, so that has been hindering my writing recently.

As an apology... well... have some vague backstory! Instead of solving the actual case.

Uh. Yeah.

* * *

><p><strong>chapter 3<strong>

**whisk it away**

* * *

><p>Matthias raised the glass to his lips and gulped a good portion of beer down his throat, letting out a satisfied sound when he brought the glass back down to the table.<p>

"The stuff here is _really_ good," Matthias remarked, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand that had held the glass. "Haven't had any good beer lately, I imagine?" he added with a side glance to Arthur, who was quietly sipping at his own drink.

Arhur snorted. "Been on a cider diet recently," he admitted regretfully.

Matthias hummed, empathy clear on his face.

Arthur resisted the irresistible urge to punch Matthias's teeth in.

"Not that you should take anything stronger than that, anyway," Matthias hummed as he raised his fingers up for another order. "Weren't we supposed to talk about Emil, anyway?"

"I'm trying to be polite and give you _time_ to get yourself and the story together," Arthur insisted, waving his hand impatiently and tad exaggeratedly before his own face. "You're just as scatterbrained as Alfred, that silly doofus, when it comes to retelling events in any order."

"You sure you just don't want to relive the old times?" Matthias laughed, but the laughter died too soon for it to have been real. Arthur had always disliked that in the other blond: that forced yet natural-sounding laughter that hid so many things beneath the tinkling sound.

Yet, it wasn't any of his business to care, and so he didn't.

Everyone fell on hard times sometimes, after all. It was a fact of life. A fact of the universe, really — too much good will bring about a disaster or two.

"No," Arthur confirmed firmly, trying to vanquish the haunting thought off his mind. He had always been unbearably emotional when tipsy, and he didn't want to go there now. This was about Lili Zwingli — the very least he could do was actually gather the information before deducing and finding the blasted prick who did her in.

"Just talk already, I haven't got the rest of the day to spend with you." He discreetly glanced at his wristwatch. It was getting close to six, now… Apparently Emil had evening lectures. What a bad coincidence.

Matthias sighed, cradling his refilled glass between his palms as he considered. "Yeah yeah, I guess you're all about business today, Arthur." He raised one hand to fiddle with the spikes of his fringe, which had undoubtedly been spiked up with gel. "Lili and Emil were pretty good friends, you know— or wait, no, you don't."

Arthur restrained himself from huffing in annoyance by sipping on his beer, taking silent comfort in the alcohol.

"I dunno, really. That day when Lili died, she wasn't at university. Didn't attend any of her lectures. Emil said he thought she was sick." Matthias's shoulders slumped as though it was _him_ who was grieving greatly. And for all Arthur knew, Matthias could be — the Dane (well, half-Dane, but fuck that) had always got ridiculously attached to people he didn't even _know_ well.

Perhaps Lili had been one of those people…

"Go on," Arthur encouraged softly. "What happened that day?"

"He tried calling her after his biology lectures. He wants to be a marine biologist." Matthias laughed again. "He's a smart kid. Got through high school with much better grades than I did all those years ago. Even better than Lukas's grades, which pisses Luka off."

Arthur dared to smile against the edge of his glass, though there was a twinge in his heart. He managed to swallow the liquid in his mouth with some difficulty.

"Lili and he were really great friends, and they were supposed to go out that night, I think, but he never saw her that day."

"But that's odd, isn't it?" Arthur threw in a protest. "She died between 8 pm and—"

"12 am," Matthias finished with a shrug as he threw his back, gulping down his beer. "Yeah, the cops told us _that_ much."

"..Anyway. It was the following morning Lili was found. Emil had spent the evening trying to call her, and he… he slept badly." Matthias swallowed thickly as he banged the glass down on the counter with unnecessary force. "Next morning he went to take a walk. Apparently walked farther than he thought he would 'cause he ended up near Braginsky's red-light district."

Somehow, Arthur managed to swallow again.

"I dunno for sure why Emil went through that alley, but that's where he found her. In that dumpster. He said the lid was half-open, which peaked his curiosity — or his paranoia, I guess — and that's when he…" Matthias trailed off, voice distant as it faded away, jaw clenching tightly as though he had been the one to discover Lili's brutally stabbed body.

"He called the cops immediately, of course, but you know how such a sight affects people who aren't used to seeing uncensored violence before…" Matthias sighed, slinging an arm around Arthur's shoulders. The action startled the shorter blond enough for him to accidentally knock his drink over.

"What's the big deal, you arse?!" Arthur protested as he pulled himself away from Matthias and the counter, staring at the wet stains on his pants with mildly inebriated disgust. He nearly swayed as he stood up, but that didn't stop him from glaring Matthias hard.

"Oh, c'mon, what's a little stain gonna do to your pants, anyway?" Matthias's roaring laughter filled the bar, and Arthur's face heated up and eyes narrowed into thin slits, sharp tongue ready to lash out at the other's clumsiness.

But, at the sight of Matthias's eyes that held no amusement for his misfortune as they usually would, Arthur relented and sat down again, mumbling an apology to the bartender who had come to dry the counter and been eyeing Arthur with apprehensive expectation.

"So, Emil discovered the body," Arthur managed to say as the bartender withdrew from them, "and that's that, huh? No idea where the lass spent her whole day?"

Matthias's gaze sunk to the counter, eyes hidden from Arthur's view. A moment of silence passed, several seconds too long.

"None whatsoever," Matthias said, slow and tentative, "but it's impossible to think that she'd have been at a club enjoying illegal drugs, you know? She isn't… wasn't that kind of girl — she visited Emil a few times at our place, so of course I know."

"Did Emil spent any time with her the days preceding the incident?" Arthur asked, rubbing at his temple sluggishly as the alcohol did its job. That was just… what, the third jug so far? Man up, Arthur.

"Well, yeah, sorta, I guess. They were studying for the midterms or something, I dunno the specifics…"

"You're useless, then," Arthur snapped.

Matthias's brows furrowed as he glared back at the fellow blond, and suddenly he seemed to slump forward, expression drifting between intense anxiety and exasperation. Arthur nearly started at the sudden change in Matthias's emotions — perhaps the other had drunk too much already? Though Arthur wasn't any better off; the nostalgia that was familiar from past evenings spent on alcohol had crept upon him like a spider upon its prey, and he could feel the familiar stinging sensation in his heart as the emotions weighed on him.

"Matthias?"

Matthias sighed and put his jug down. "S'just… the girl was nice and all, a pretty little princess and Emil was kinda… well, kinda like Luka, kinda reserved but with a dorky side."

"Didn't know Lukas had a dorky side," Arthur muttered and downed the rest of his beer. Speaking of dorks, that made him think about those two idiots. He quickly ordered another beer before he could go down the memory line.

Matthias gave a short snort, but it sounded forced, and Arthur thought that this murder had really been hard on Matthias as well, after all. Deaths did tend to do that… _Idiot,_ he chastised himself as his eyes stung.

"Yeah, he does," Matthias murmured as the chatter in the background grew louder as more people poured into the bar. "It's always the people you'd least expect to have such a cute side. You, too, Artie."

The old nickname made Arthur nearly choke; _god, it's been so long since anyone called me that._

Had it been Matthew who had called him that the last time?

"Don't call me that," he said automatically, tensely as he rolled his shoulders and willfully ignored the stinging feeling in his eyes. No, today he was not going to cry. "And I don't have a cute side!"

Matthias laughed heartily at the heated denial, and slung an arm over Arthur's shoulders. "Nah, man, you have one. Like, I remember your drunken rambles about Harry Potter and what was it called… Mint Bunny? I don't even know, man, but that was kinda cute, though we're not five anymore, Artie."

"You shut up now, Matthias. Besides, Harry Potter is suitable for anyone regardless of age, you daft arse."

"Is that your excuse when you're in your sixties and crying over Neville Longbottom?"

"Fuck you. I'll be watching Mary Poppins by that time."

"Hahahaha! See, you totally have a cute side, just like my Luka!"

"Do you _want_ a black eye like in the good old days, Matthias?"

* * *

><p>A couple hours later, and Arthur stumbled into his office slash apartment with his bag and scribbled notes he had made in taxi hurriedly, though the slips of paper were stained with tears that had fallen despite Arthur's valiant efforts to keep them in.<p>

He dropped his baggage the moment he closed the door, which he then slumped against and slid down to the floor as his legs gave in.

His mind buzzed with irrelevant thoughts, and his heart ached like it did every time he went out for drinks these days, but slowly he managed to pull himself together in the silence of his office.

Matthias's words still rang in his ears — _Emil liked her, you know, and it was that kinda crush people get and never forget even if they don't act on it_ — and Arthur's chest felt tight, as though something was swelling inside his lungs.

Emil's face from earlier reappeared in his mind, and maybe it was the sentimentality of a drunk, but Arthur thought he could now see the sorrow in the lines of Emil's face and in the depths of pale purple eyes. Or perhaps it was himself he was seeing in his mind —

Arthur let out a choked sob before furiously wiping at his eyes. He should focus on the case. He really should, he realized this even through the buzz alcohol always gave him.

"Matthew…" slipped past his mouth, though, and it was the last straw — the expression on Emil's face that brought back memories of Alfred's face from two years ago… Lili Zwingli… Vash Zwingli…

The thoughts and memories swirled together, no doubt thanks to the alcohol in his system, and Arthur cried, body shaking as he curled into himself.

* * *

><p>The morning came and went before Arthur reached consciousness again — though with his awakening arrived the regret and all the 'why' questions as well as a headache the size of the Rocky Mountains.<p>

"Ugh…" Arthur grunted as he untangled himself from the floor where he had slept uncomfortably the past several hours, cringing as he heard cracks from his neck and spine. The light trickling into the room through the windows made him wince and curse out loud as he rose, stumbling every step on the way, and gathered the files and notes he had hastily taken last night.

If he was glad for one thing, it was that at least he hadn't had any dreams that night either.

* * *

><p>It was time to figure shit out from all this, though Arthur had yet to visit Lili's other friends — which he knew he should do, but like hell was he going to deal with people while hungover and irritable. That'd be like willingly exposing himself to Alfred's idiotic video game sessions. (Though Alfred's vocabulary in cussing had grown impressively, Arthur had noticed the last time.)<p>

He looked at the scribbled notes he had taken in the bar, wincing at how sloppy the handwriting had got later on, but somehow he managed to understand the misspelled and grammatically incorrect text despite the loopy handwriting.

What he had got from Matthias… was that Lili had been loved dearly by Emil, in most meanings of the word. But was there a world Lili hid from Emil and her other friends?

Arthur sighed, eyebrows twitching. Opiates could mean Ivan's underground clubs, but it's not like Ivan was the only Big Bad out there — and that meant a shit tone of clubs to investigate.

Was _this_ why Francis had given this case to him?

To set him up for some discreet undercover work? He hadn't been in the police force for a while now, so not every bad guy out there remembered him anymore, and he'd blend in with his rugged appearance and… alcoholism.

Arthur grimaced, and his head throbbed more.

_Damn you, Francis Bonnefoy._ The shit he went through for that sorry arse.

* * *

><p>That evening, he found himself bathing in fluorescent lights and good old-fashioned music — a contradiction in the making, truly, but Arthur liked it despite the visit being made on the grounds of professional reasons. A drink in hand while lounging on one of the rich-colored sofas, Arthur looked like just about any other club-goer, especially with his ripped jeans and old punk shirt.<p>

It was a nostalgic outfit, but there was no room for nostalgia today.

Arthur's eyes swept the vast room, roaming over the customers and the staff in lazy, careless manner, only stopping when they saw a familiar silver-dyed hair. Oh. That was not the person he had expected to see here. Maybe he was on acid without knowing it. That'd explain seeing _him._

Arthur's eyes narrowed before closing as he downed another shot, his mind buzzing pleasantly but containing a sense of lucidity that was foreign to him. The music changed into one of The Beatles' greatest hits, and he absently hummed and nodded his head to the lyrics. Classics. Now this was the kind of club he liked, even with the illegal substances that were dealt out in the open.

Even now, he could see from the corner of his eyes two people negotiating heatedly over a price of a bag of what he thought to be heroin.

"C'mon, dude, 200 bucks? I don't have that much on me!"

"Too bad for you then. Only paying customers get the real good stuff."

Arthur paid little attention to the transactions, especially after having caught glimpse of another annoying bloke, and merely got up to join the dance floor when the nostalgic Beatles changed into 80's disco music. Absolutely cringeworthy, that music, but the tempo and the rhythm were great — and with an inebriated grin, he swayed to the dance floor.

It was a real criminal lair, this one. Shady and dubious to the boot, laughter and music accompanied by sex and drugs. The kind of club Arthur used to go to in his teen years, and the kind of place he had hung out with Francis at for one too many times, unwillingly and unwittingly.

So he wasn't unused to bodies bumping against each other on the dance floor nor to the smells that made the air thick and sickeningly sweet-scented. Arthur half-cringed, half-grinned as he relaxed and swayed to the beat of the music, eyes raking the crowd for anyone with a connection to Lili. (He had memorized the photos and names of Lili's friends — perhaps one of them had a connection to these places.)

The music boomed around him, addictive and leg-itching; bodies swayed and rocked, forming a tangled mass and individuals disappeared into the chaos of clothes and bodies, and the fluorescent lights flashed around them, colors of lighter and darker shades flickering around Arthur in a hypnotizing fashion.

It didn't surprise him too much when he felt hands on his hips and a low humming from behind him, though he flushed in embarrassment as it had been a very long time since he had allowed intimate touches like that — asides from the slinging-an-arm-over-your-shoulder thing that Alfred was _always_ doing, that moron, and Francis's nose-flicks, but did those really count?

"What's an old mutt like yourself doing out here?" Arthur had been previously content on letting the hands stay where they were, but the highpitched, cackling voice of someone he kind-of-loathed (which is, to be fair, almost everyone in his life) made him flinch and turn around, hand clenched into a fist and ready to punch the git, but Gilber Weilschmidt had, not surprisingly, realized the intention and taken a step back with another burst of cackling laughter, red eyes gleaming and silver-dyed hair shining beneath the fluorescent lights.

If Arthur had felt dizzy before, now he just felt nauseous — he hadn't counted on meeting _Gilbert_ of all people. Heck, he'd have preferred Ivan. Hell, he had intended to meet Ivan, though hoping to pull of the air of coincidence in that meeting.

"You..!" Arthur flinched, cringed, and did a double take to make sure it was _actually_ Gilbert and not some alcohol-induced vision. There went that hope. "What are you doing here?!"

The easy, disgusting, shit-eating grin couldn't be mistaken for anyone else's. "I should ask you the same think." Gilbert nudged at his side, right where Arthur was sensitive on. A garbled snort-giggle was drowned by the music, but Gilbert's overbearing laugh said he had heard that.

Arthur didn't bother to respond — more like, he couldn't. The surprise had worn off quickly, and now icicles were forming somewhere within him if the cold, numbing sensation spreading through him was anything to go by. Weak and distracted from his mission, Arthur quickly left the floor, eyes seeing nothing as he mindlessly rushed away even though he hated escaping like a coward.

He got out from the building, followed by yells of indignation as he had bumped into quite a few people, and he took a deep breath the moment he felt the night air meeting him like the embrace of a loving mother.

(Gilbert. Matthew. _Why is Gilbert here. _Matthew. **Matthew…**_)_

Arthur took a shaky breath, trying to reign his racing thoughts and memories, and tried to… _what_? He had come over here with no plan whatsoever, other than his vague search to see whether Lili's friends frequented the place, and now he was out, leaning against a dirty old brickwall after having exited the club in haste after seeing Gilbert, Matthew's old…

Why was it that this case had brought up his past like this again? Lili Zwingli — Vash Zwingli — Gilbert — Matthew.

_Why now?_

After looking for clues for so long, a sudden murder just happens, and the victim is none other than the triggerhappy officer's younger sister.

Arthur closed his eyes, sinking against the hard bricks, and tried to regain the lucidity from earlier. The cold night air soothed him, but the wet trails on his cheeks refused to dry as they soundlessly traveled down his face, the sounds from the club and the surrounding city working as a contrast to the serenity of the moment.

A moment or two or five passed, before someone scrambled out from the club's backdoor, the same exit Arthur had used, and effectively startling the slumped detective.

"Hey, what was that all about, Artie— Not _awesome at all_!"

Arthur cringed, his head throbbing with something other than a simple headache. "Get a hint, you git."

Gilbert's face now came and invaded Arthur's vision, blood red eyes full of curiosity and restless energy Gilbert was so famed for. Yet, Arthur could detect the hints of the strain the years have put on Gilbert, and some ridiculously vindictive part of Arthur was glad for it.

Gilbert tilted his head, lips quirking up a bit unnaturally, and something remarkably close to hesitance flickered in his eyes and appeared in the curve of his intoxicated smile that made Arthur sick.

"What're you so upset about now, Artie— you haven't seen me in so long! Is that a way to greet your old classmate? I don't think so."

Arthur felt dizzy; he hadn't drunk all that much, but the neon lights may have done him in — or perhaps it was the shock of seeing Gilbert again after all this time. The painful memories brought to surface this suddenly; what could be crueler? Though, this whole case had already made him think about Matthew — if only because of the Zwingli association.

But…

"Gilbert," Arthur managed as he staggered away from the other by sliding unelegantly to the side, back still slumped against the wall, at whic Gilbert snorted before grabbing Arthur by the arm.

"Seriouslyyyy," Gilbert whined, "it's like you think I killed Mattie."

Arthur couldn't breathe, couldn't afford to think, to remember— "Gilbert," he stressed the name, his anger flushed out of him as the hurt widened the crack in his heart. That was, at least, how the throbbing felt — like a canyon was forming inside him. A monumental moment at the wrong time and place.

"You know I don't think that," he said, slowly, the breath leaving his mouth forcefully, as though it was squeezed out of him. "No matter how infuriating you were, I never-" This, too, was unlike Arthur — to find himself at a loss for words, so choked up in the memories that his world has gone blank and dizzy. In this state, he grabbed Gilbert's shoulder just how the other had grabbed him from the arm.

He hadn't noticed it before, but now that he clutched at Gilbert, it was difficult to ignore Gilbert's fragility — what a ridiculous notion — that had never been there and yet was now.

As though Gilbert could easily crumble at the slightest touch…

Arthur may not like the man — did he like _anyone_ for that matter — but…

Gilbert's eyes narrowed into their usual slits. "Artie," he whispered, voice strained and lips curled down uncharacteristically, "I _loved_ Mattie."

"Do I look like I care, Gilbert- Unhand me, you fiend!" Like a dramatic, flamboyant creature of darkness, Arthur tried to swat and shove Gilbert off of him, but the German had always been stronger than what his appearance suggested and his grip was vice-like. Whilst struggling, Arthur accidentally hit his shoulder against the brick wall, the sharp pain eliciting a whimper from him.

"Artie," Gilbert repeated, grip tighter than before, "I didn't kill Mattie."

"I know," Arthur growled, "_I know_. You have alibis for the other crimes-"

"_No,_" Gilbert interrupted heatedly, voice slurring. "You're not getting it. I couldn't… have killed… Mattie." Gilbert paused, breath coming out in soft puffs, and Arthur thought he saw cold sweat on the side of Gilbert's face, though the heated red eyes still demanded most of Arthur's attention. The sorrow in the swirls of red was captivating in the worst sort of way — the way that Arthur was familiar with, after seeing the sorrow reflected on his bathroom mirror every morning these past months and years.

A harsh wind blew by them, whistling around the corners of the alley, but both ignored it in the heat of the moment. Green and red eyes set to stare one another; one hand gripping one arm, another hand on the other's shoulder, and a connection heavier than either would like.

Arthur felt his eyes sting first, followed by the thick feeling in his throat that usually preceded crying or other kind of an emotional outburst — neither which he wanted to have in front of Gil of all people. Even in his less than sober state, he didn't want _this _weakness to be exposed and exploited.

Before he could say anything else, Gilbert surprised him by slumping forward, leaning onto him as though Arthur was his life support, hand moving from Arthur's arm to his shirt and whole body quivering in the cold weather. Arthur only now noticed the tank top Gil had been wearing, and that itself made him shiver in turn. Jesus, this boy… man… manboy… was a wreck.

"I really loved him, Artie," Gil (when had Arthur ever called him by that horrid nickname didn't matter) breathed out with heavy emotion, nose somewhere in Arthur's shoulder and hands still clasping the hem of Arthur's shirt. _Where's my jacket,_ Arthur wondered briefly and with serious concern. It was his favourite one, oh god.

"I, uh…"

"Who could have killed _my_ Mattie? He wasn't a druggie, you know, or anythin' like that. A cool guy with cooler hobbies and awesome cooking to back all that ass up…"

"Tell me about it, mate," Arthur sighed, heavy-hearted as he pictured Matthew's face in his mind. That gentle smile on a kind man's face… "It's not the… the same without him."

This case may have a different official name in the police records, but to Arthur, this one would always be "The One that Brought Matthew Back"…


End file.
